


Stripped

by Nikoshinigami



Series: Naked, Stripped, and Raw [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Naked. Fall has come and with it the end to old and new alike. With Sherlock busy investigating a case that strikes far too close to home, the only thing that can keep him from getting his revenge is the distraction of things he thought he'd avoided well over a year before.</p><p>Edited by <a href="http://renadolce.tumblr.com/">Renadolce</a></p><p>Winner for Best Characterization in the 2014 <a href="http://sherlockbbcficrecs.tumblr.com/post/98736794821/winners-of-the-2014-holmsies-announced">Holmsies Awards</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John hated critics. He wondered sometimes if they had ever read a newspaper in their lives or somehow missed the big announcement about this thing called Google if they had the audacity to complain that the _character_ of Sherlock Holmes wasn't believable. Artistic license his arse. If Sherlock Holmes wasn't believable, it was simply on the grounds that the man himself was every bit as unbelievable as he seemed. It was almost worth listening to his publisher's advice sometimes if it meant laughing in the critics’ faces, though the thought of going on the telly to promote _A Study in Pink_ made his hackles rise. He'd had rather enough press for a lifetime as Sherlock's height-enhancing accompaniment. He knew the press all too well. A minute on the book, and the rest of whatever segment they scheduled spent on dirt and gossip. 'Bachelor' may not be the latest nick-name the presses could enjoy but the fewer people who called his wife a 'good cover' the better. There was a finite number of nights a bloke wanted to spend in jail for breaking noses. So instead John simply folded the paper to take home and add to the _special_ pile for later reference. Just in case he ever snapped some day and considered a long overdue killing spree as a means to an end. It would, at least, entertain Sherlock.

Still, arsehole critics were a small price to pay for the limited luxuries of being a published author. The book advance had covered closing costs on a nice home not too far out of the city and his final manuscript had gone towards a very nice savings fund for his other big achievement. Sherlock had always been the first step towards life fulfillment and the proper chronicle of their meeting had shown itself to be a continuation of that trend. Though John had tried to split the money, Sherlock would have nothing of it. John liked to pretend it was because he'd rather the money go to John's starting family. More likely, Sherlock just didn't want to have to bother with bankers. Like an old Victorian gentleman, Sherlock seemed to get by on a simple stipend from one source or another—Mycroft by basic reasoning, perhaps as executor of their family estate. Scotland Yard certainly didn't pay him and he turned down more payments than he accepted for his private work. Still, never a sterling short and generous to the last pence. John did need the money; there hadn't been much argument there. Didn't make him feel guiltless enough not to demand he pay for their food and drinks during their weekly rendezvous, though.

Sherlock was late but that was par for the course. It was hard to hold it against a man with no set schedule. He'd come when he could or text if he could not. It was sort of a system they'd fallen in to. They had a usual table at their usual place and though the wait staff had changed some over the year, there was still one or two usual girls who would smile and nod and know. He had a usual order for when Sherlock was late and at least one of them brought it to him whether he'd ordered it or not. Ten minutes and no company meant coffee and a small service of biscuits while the sight of Sherlock elicited just the one menu to be brought to the table. It was like clockwork or magic. It made John feel important no matter how abysmal his time in the surgery had been. He truly did not mind having to wait on his friend when he was hardly among strangers as it was. 

Sitting at their table, coffee resting on its saucer, John tucked the newspaper in his bag and pulled out instead his laptop to begin work once more, never one to waste a moment when one was spared. Much as his wife insisted he write next about how _they'd_ met, John couldn't bring himself to put forth the effort of writing another novel. It was an exhaustive process which, at the time, had been a kind distraction but with life's not-so-subtle changes, it hardly fit in with his current responsibilities. Sadly the money certainly did. With The Strand willing to pay him rather generously for serialized stories, just a few pages on the many adventures Sherlock and he had enjoyed, not much more than the blog posts that had started it all, well, it would hardly have been sensible to have turned them down. His current piece—"A Scandal in Belgravia"—aimed to show Sherlock in perhaps a warmer light than his first book had done. It didn't exactly follow the order of events in their life but surely a dominatrix, faked deaths, the crown and government cover-ups would make for a fine story all the same.

He wasn't very far into either his story or his cup of coffee when the chair across from him pulled out, into which Sherlock seated himself hastily with a rather exhaustive groan. John looked up to find his friend lightly perspiring with his shirt collar crooked, waving aside the menu as the waitress came to deliver it and looking by all rights ready to bolt from the cafe as quickly as he had landed within.

"You look—"

"Yes, I'm sure." Sherlock breathed out with exasperation as he raked long fingers through his curls. "All done and taken care of, though."

John snorted, leaning over the table to set Sherlock's collar right. "You didn't have to run on my account. You know I'll wait."

"Trust me, this isn't your doing. Just... business as usual," Sherlock assured him, smacking his hand away to see to his state of dress himself.

John sat back, shaking his head at the clear signs of fatigue in Sherlock's demeanor. It wasn't just the sweat and heavy breathing but the darkness under his eyes and the tiredness of his features. Another long and involved case, then. Part of him very much wanted to know all about it and hear the tale from beginning to end in as much detail as Sherlock could spare. But that wasn't part of their arrangement. So he just smiled and sipped his coffee, still pleased all the same that Sherlock had tried to wrap the case up in time for their weekly meet-up. "You should probably eat," he cautioned, pushing closer to him the plate of biscuits. If he was tired, surely he was hungry too.

But Sherlock just turned his nose up at them, accepting only the cool water sat before him. "I can't stay long; I told Lestrade I'd meet him back at the station. Just stopping by."

"Oh. Alright." John shut the lid on his laptop. "Ah, you have a chance to look over the first few pages I sent you?"

Sherlock gave him a stern frown—nearly a pout. 

"The sheet?"

"The sheet." Sherlock confirmed, making the ice dance with his straw. "I was not being obstinate nor was it a sign of rebellion. I was merely making a point."

"The point being that Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to do anything he didn't want to do just because he was supposed to. Do you need me to define obstinacy for you?"

"You make me sound like a spoilt child," he complained, arms crossing over his chest.

John could not help but chuckle, warmth rising in his cheeks at the memories of sitting in Buckingham Palace next to his nearly naked best friend like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You _are_ a child, Sherlock. Not in all ways but in some. It's not a bad thing. I think people will find it.... endearing."

"No they won't; why will they?"

"Because it shows that you're... you're funny. You're remarkable. It's really very you in ways that's hard to describe. I'd really hate to take it out. I think it does well to show how strong willed you are in contrast to... well, to the later bits."

Sherlock sat up straighter. "And what was weak willed about solving the case and foiling Ms. Adler's plot?"

"Not weak willed. Wrong word. Ah..," John licked his lips, trying to think of how best to describe what he meant. "Okay, _innocent_. I mean, the case stuff for the most part is simply brilliant but you have to admit you were pretty naive about the whole romantic aspect. I wasn't exactly helping, I bought the whole love story too, believe me, there will be plenty of asides of me reprimanding myself for encouraging you. Can we maybe wait until it's done and revisit the sheet? Maybe if you can read the whole thing it will make sense why I want to keep it."

Sherlock looked less than pleased but gestured the topic aside. "Fine. We'll address it later. I expect you to focus on the actual case this time and much less on personal matters is all."

"They're _my_ memoirs. It's my autobiography in god knows how many parts. I'm writing these to describe my life with you and define you as a real person. So hopefully we can continue to agree to disagree there because I am going to focus on us now and then, even in these shorter ones."

Sherlock continued to scowl but his eyes had softened from their earlier expression. He sipped his water and left it at that, saying not a word edgewise despite his propensity to have the last. It made John wonder sometimes just how genuine Sherlock's complaints were and how much was just further testament to his obstinate nature. The sheet was staying in. He was going to win that fight one way or another.

John watched as Sherlock glanced at his wrist several times, the expensive timepiece hardly having a chance to change between each look. He'd been in the middle of something important. He'd made time but not much. John smiled at him as he put his laptop back into its case and waved for the bill. "If you hate it that much, you're more than welcome to write your own versions. A whole annotated copy of my works with you scratching things out and writing in the margins ' _Wrong!'_ , correcting me in the footnotes."

Sherlock chuckled. "Tempting. Pity such free time is rarely made available to me."

"Lucky for me, then. I get enough guff from the paid critics as it is," John said, passing off a few bank notes to the familiar blonde before standing and making his way out of the cafe with his friend.

The busy street was relatively empty. Tuesday night, not exactly prime time for dating, not much more than business men and women and the occasional student in transit or finding time to idle. Sherlock held up his arm to hail a cab, his stature ensuring one almost immediately.

"Tell Lestrade I said hello, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, leaning his hand against the cab as it stopped beside him. "He was asking about you just the other day, actually. I think his exact words were ' _where is that bastard when I need him?_ '."

"On your best behavior, were you?" 

"My very best," Sherlock assured him, his smile deep and mischievous. 

John chuckled, shaking his head fondly. "Keep at it," he said, and stepped back to let Sherlock open the cab door. Then things went much, much slower. 

At first there was the screaming—a woman's; older from the pitch—and from that siren a shift of bodies like parting waves. Second was the gleam of sunlight off the gun. He felt a fool not to have looked up and seen the face of its wielder, motivated instead to move back towards Sherlock whose back faced the scene, caught in slow motion as he turned. Third was the bullet. Fourth was cold. Fifth was stupidity and gravity and somehow not yet pain but full awareness. Sixth was his head against the cab on his way down. Seventh was a pale blur with black fringe keeping him from the pavement. Eighth was black and cold and heavy. 

There was no ninth.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat in the hospital waiting room, hands supporting his face as he stared down at the laminate flooring trying not to deduce how many people with canes, crutches or wheelchairs had moved across it judging by the different types of rubber scuff marks. It was four, though—three wheelchairs, one with a stuck break on its left wheel, and one cane whose owner had a bad hip. Mop residue said the janitor closet was several yards interior, the waiting room being one of the last to be mopped and the water not being changed out—lazy, possibly a student, certainly someone with higher aspirations than floor mopping. The nurse walking through the room had recently had a child—wear pattern of her shoes showing abnormal weight distribution and a shuffled step not currently observed. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. He breathed deeply through his nose. Not important, spiraling out, gyroscopic. It wasn't helping, it was making him angry. None of these people had anything to do with anything important. Agitation, over-activity, anxiety, impaired judgment, confusion, tachycardia, sweating, flushing. Ridiculous symptoms. Moronic condition. Nothing for it but time.

Lestrade—simple, ineffective—sat beside him with polished unease, sitting tall while Sherlock slumped, looking out while Sherlock focused within. His fingers tapped against his knees in syncopation. "This room is too public," he whispered hoarsely, the tightness in his throat betraying his own worry far beyond the call of duty. Sherlock nodded, not really caring what was said or why or to whom. It was familiar and that was good. It was grounding and so much better than the wordless fear of losing John.

He was still wearing John. Curling in he could feel the cool of the red stain against his chest, rough where it was dry but soaked enough to still stick to his own skin and catch the cool, circulating air. It had been warm when it had first touched him. He would rather it warm again. Everything felt colder, warmth seeping out of his body like... like blood from a wound. Lestrade's coat around his shoulders did little to insulate his own bones and flesh from the chill. Shock, he mused, and he smiled at the rubber scuff marks. He'd seen men shot before. Right in front of him. He'd seen brains splatter and chests explode. He hadn't seen anything this time. Not a thing. Just a growing stain of red passing from one body into his. 

He hadn't _looked_. A gun shot, the bang of a body hitting the cab, the instinct to put his arms out and finding John in them as they sank down slowly to the pavement in a crouch. Blood, right shoulder—he doubted he wanted a matching set. Should have gotten up. Should have passed John off to the worried bystanders crowding in and made chase. Too many people, a wall of idiots with more concern than sense. Open eyes showing soulless white, the color folded back into the skull. Warm— _put pressure on it_ —and still— _check he's breathing_ —and so much heavier than he looked. He shouldn't have held on to him, he should have made his care someone else's purpose at the scene. The gunner had gotten away and Sherlock hadn't a single memory of the sight of him.

Then, at some point, an ambulance loud and rushing. Screaming squad cars. Lestrade, and Donovan looking pale. That was the first moment the blood felt cold, as men took John away and closed the doors before tearing down the streets again. " _It's not my blood,_ " he told them as they tried to usher him along as well. An orange blanket, a ride in the backseat he hated. He wasn't going to the station or his home or someplace 'safe'. He was following John one way or another. Lestrade's argument had been short. He drove. He complied. And in the waiting room they wasted time on sentiment.

An hour. Sherlock rationalized it was good not to have seen anyone yet. It took longer than this to cut a man open, remove a bullet, fix internal damage, suture up and make better the exterior wound as well. It took time to save people. Still the swaying doors stood like stage drapes, concealing reality, a paradoxical play with John both alive _and_ dead until some evidence betrayed both possibilities for one absolution.   
Agitation, over-activity, anxiety, confusion. What a pointless, stupid ailment. His body was as much an idiot as the wannabe hero who caused it.

"You okay?" Lestrade still. Still nervous, still _there_. He placed his hand on Sherlock's back, rubbing in short strokes across his shoulders. "You going to be alright?"

"Which question were you wanting the answer to first?" he asked in return, looking up in time to see the doors of the waiting room part to admit a harried looking woman carrying an infant several months old. Her heels clip-clocked over the linoleum as she hurried to the front desk, her blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail the child seemed quite eager to eat. 

It had John's eyes.

"Mary," Lestrade called, and the woman turned, her face splotched red but free of tears. She changed her direction immediately, crossing towards them without hesitation, hefting the child up higher against her shoulder as she walked.

A girl; pink all-in-one with little elephants. White-blonde hair.

"Greg, anything?"

"Not yet. Could be a while still before anyone comes out to let us know."

John's lips too. She wouldn't thank him for those. Not his nose. Maybe his ears. Definitely his eyes. They looked wrong on a face that young.

"I'm going to see if they can tell me anything. Can you—" she was already pushing the child towards him, Lestrade's hands accepting her with a nod as the quick exchange was made and Mary hurried back towards the front desk, demanding attention with not a soul willing to do anything less than comply.

Assertive. Rational. Stubborn. Sherlock liked the way she made timid people come to attention. It didn't mean she was needed.

The child fussed in Lestrade's arms and he bounced her gently, calloused hand patting against the padding of her backside as he ushered her to shush. Practiced technique. Familiarity. It quieted her sounds, her head resting under his chin with her wise eyes still staring intently at Sherlock below in his chair. "There's a good girl," Lestrade praised, still patting and bouncing her even through the quiet. "Everything's going to be just fine."

Such a stupid lie to tell someone not yet sentient enough to grasp the weight of the situation in the first place. Just a child. Just a stupid, still developing blank slate of a nothing-yet.

John's child.

She stared at him, unblinking, chubby and peach-toned and strange. Eight fingers, two thumbs. Responsive to auditory stimuli. Visual acuity certain. Blue eyes with a hint of grey, dark like the ocean or a pastoral sky. Blue and not-blue depending on the light. Oval and open and perfectly spaced. The ghost of heavy brows white-blonde and invisible like her hair. She stared and so he stared back till her face turned from peach to cherry, her nose wrinkling and her thin lips curling as she let out a great shriek of a cry. Lestrade redoubled his efforts, patting her back instead as the wails became broken sobs. "Shhhh. It's okay. It's all okay."

Sherlock returned his line of sight to the floor, his own eyes squeezed tight to block out the sight and sounds of the anomaly he'd known probably existed but had still never before been real.

John had a wife and a baby girl and the idiot had gotten in the way.

Mary's shoes announced her return, her comforting " _there, there_ "'s accompanying the snotty hiccups and mews. "Same as you said. I'm going to go mad if I think about it too much so let's do the part where you tell me what happened."

Lestrade cleared his throat, letting his breath out through his nose. "Here's probably not the best place for it. It's very much under investigation, you have my word. Now, we can probably get access to someplace a bit more private here—"

"I don't want them to have to try and find me. Here's fine. How did John get shot?"

It was all Sherlock could do not to laugh. An acute stress reaction. Truly a stupid, pointless condition. "Hello, Mary," he said to the floor.

"Hello, Sherlock." Her shoes pointed towards him, her voice softer, not the same as she addressed Lestrade, far closer to the way she coddled her daughter. "Who's trying to kill you this time?" she asked.

"I don't know."

Lestrade's hand was on the back of his neck, a warning pinch given as he kept his head down. "We're looking into it. Obviously someone has a grudge against Sherlock but this guy's not going to be able to evade arrest for long. It's just a matter of time. Trust me, you and your family don't have a thing to worry about. John was just... doing what John does. Could very well have saved Sherlock's life, even."

He might have, yes. Sherlock shook his head at the ridiculousness of it, his own mind fighting against the assumptions with fact and reason and everything that made his temples pulse with pain. "All violent cases have ended in arrest or death of the assailant," he said despite the cue to remain silent. He looked up at Mary, finding her looking down at him with all the attention she could spare. "There has not been an investigation which was left in any way open ended in _years_. All loose ends have been customarily accounted for. There is no one who would have reason to target me at this time."

Mary looked between the two of them, settling on the confusion of the private detective over the assurance of the detective inspector. "You really don't have any idea who it might be?" she asked, sliding her palm against his forehead before giving Lestrade a frown. "He's burning up."

"He's in shock."

"None whatsoever."

She nibbled her bottom lip, hefting the child up again as she slipped down her waist. "You should get him home," she told Lestrade with the same tone as she spoke to the nurses. "If whoever this is is mad enough to fire a gun on a busy street then they may not have any qualms walking in and shooting this place up as well."

Lestrade nodded, running one hand through his grey hair. "Yeah, I'm not too thrilled about being in the open like this either. Honestly, I'm just waiting on his ride," he said with a somewhat guilty glance in Sherlock's direction.

Of course it wouldn't have been as simple as getting his way. Placating. Coddling. Lying to him with the same open concern as to a whimpering baby. Sherlock sat upright, Lestrade's jacket sliding from his shoulders to pool at his back. "I don't need or want _his_ help."

"Someone's trying to kill you, Sherlock. I seem to remember that sort of thing not really working out in anyone's favor." He pulled the jacket back up, securing it around him as he pushed for him to duck his head down once more.

Sherlock complied only as his head was still buzzing. It didn't matter anymore. Once called there was no arguing with inevitability. He'd just have further protest when the man's mouthpiece came forth to take him away. He'd save his argument for then.

'Then' took twenty more minutes. Slow on the deployment, Sherlock thought, still casting glances at the swinging doors from which few emerged and none did so speaking of John. Mary paced and Lestrade spoke on his phone with his men and through the front doors came not an assistant or lesser lackey but Mycroft himself, impeccably dressed as always in his three piece suit. He looked out of place. Out of time. He didn't belong nor was he wanted and Sherlock hoped he'd understand without his need to explain why. The British Government walked over to Lestrade first, only a small glance spared his brother as he stood before the professional with a grave face but static demeanor. "I've had the surveillance footage from the street routed to your department. Not terribly helpful, I'm afraid. A bus obscured the best angle but there were others. Young adult male going by his dress. Hood up, no facial features observed. You now have everything I can lend you, Detective Inspector. I expect a quick arrest."

Lestrade nodded, his Queen and Country sentiments keeping his shoulders back at attention even after years of dealing with Mycroft.   
"Yes, right, of course," he said. "What about Sherlock? I mean, I have the manpower to spare to keep a close eye on him."

"The only person willing to die for Sherlock has already made the attempt. Your men aren't paid enough to make such a sacrifice. Mine are. I'll take over that particular front." 

"Yes, please, do continue talking about me as if I'm not here. Don't feel inclined, however, to spell things out should you worry I might catch on. I did somehow manage the skill between primary school and age thirty-eight."

"Alright, Sherlock," Mycroft chided, his hand falling to the black curls on his head with a gentle pat despite the sharpness of his tongue. "Your address is hardly private information. Between John's book and your website you all but flaunt where to find you. They struck at your most social but had they attacked you from home, walked in and pulled a gun from the doorway... it would be you in there, Sherlock. You were very, very lucky they chose to strike when they did."

"I hardly call this luck." He looked away, hating the men for their concern—well placed as it might be—watching the swinging doors open once again, this time the man pausing and scanning, finding them and drawing closer with a purpose and step that meant this one was for them, this one was John. Sherlock meant to rise but saw Mary rush past to meet the man halfway, his brother's hand holding him to stay as though to remind him that this was not his place; it was hers.

They could not hear the doctor from where they observed but they could read his words in Mary's body. Relief. Joy. She hugged her daughter, kissing her head as the doctor continued to speak, his own small smile and tired eyes speaking volumes for the efforts involved and the success born through them. 

Mycroft's hand squeezed around Sherlock's shoulder. "Let's go," he said, and he removed Lestrade's coat from his back as he pulled for him to rise.

John was going to be alright. This was a matter for family. Sherlock didn't count anymore. Sherlock had a job to do.

He rose slowly, his muscles aching from the stress as he felt both feet under him again. He was sure he remembered how to walk. It was like breathing. Once one got started again, one didn't have to think about it at all. Right, left; in, out; hello, goodbye. Bang.

He was going to murder that son of a bitch. 

No judge. No jury. No mercy.

And the dark blue eyes watched in silent vigil as the pale faced man walked out in rage.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a glorious black car that needed to be scratched. The leather interior needed knife marks and cigarette burns. The carpet needed stains. Sherlock didn't like shiny, new. It was like virginity and ignorance, not the presence of something but the absence. New just meant not yet ruined, waiting to be tarnished, temporarily unbroken. It was an illusion of perfection. It needed to be dented at the very least and wrapped around a pole ideally.

Mycroft fit in far too well in the illusion. Mycroft's entire life revolved around creating false realities, though, which were cookie-cutter and safe and catered to those who truthfully would rather not know. He'd always been quite the magician with the world watching for the secrets within his right hand while the left cranked the gears that made it turn. But not with Sherlock. Behind the black tinted car windows, while the rest of London saw only power and prestige riding elegantly down its streets, Sherlock was treated to the fullness of Mycroft's slouch, the weariness with which he rubbed his brow, the complete exhaustion pulling on his expression of married reluctance and worry—Worry never far from its mistress Determination. Sherlock folded his arms over his chest, eyes bored with the obvious tells that comprised his brother's state and finding more compelling the flashes of faces through the limited view. City employee, Banker, Salesman, Crook; bad news, having an affair, transvestite, needs a hit. Pointless. Unable to turn it off—neither the ability nor the want to see and know. Worried about money, going to visit his mother, sick sibling in the hospital, had a full English breakfast that morning. Ignorant. Stupid. Dull.

But some could help. Mycroft wasn't the only Holmes with eyes around the city.

"You are not working this case," his brother spoke with barely a lift of his chin as he continued to stare down at his knees with brows knit and fingers massaging away the strain. 

Sherlock felt no reservations in stealing him with a glare. "You can't stop me," he said, legs crossing at the knee. "I'm the only one who can discover the motive and therefore lead us to the gunman. I refuse to leave this to Lestrade and his men. I hardly trust them with even the simplest of cases, you think I'm about to allow them to investigate a crime that has John in hospital without my involvement?"

"You must."

Sherlock tried the door—child-locked. Trapped until released.

Mycroft shook his head. "This is not a point to argue, Sherlock."

" _Oh, but we will argue it._ "

"If you think I will not break your spirit to ensure your safety then you are gravely mistaken." Mycroft sat up, his cold eyes burning. "I made that gamble years ago and it proved to be in detriment. I will confine you for however long I must until Lestrade has made his conviction. I don't imagine you will thank me for this but you will be well enough to hate me. A brother scorned is infinitely better than a brother buried." Powerful and able, too smart to make the same mistake twice, too sensible to trust. Love was a powerful motivator and Sherlock hated when it stood to stop him. Love was far more often against him than on his side.

Sherlock sat forward in his seat, glaring. "This is kidnapping."

"Is it? Well, how lucky for me I have all sorts of immunities where the law is concerned."

"I'll escape. And if I need help, I will not come to you," he promised, unfolding himself to add to the intimidation. "Try that one on your conscience and let me know if it fits."

"You underestimate me. Sherlock, I can hide you away from even the light."

"You wouldn't dare."

"What do I have to fear?"

Nothing. 

Sherlock's mind gave a heave as it stopped, the track ahead not heading for his desired destination, a new tactic required. Threats hardly ever worked with Mycroft and reason bent too easily to his might. All of Sherlock's enemies eventually made a mistake, however, and Mycroft was not so perfect as to not betray his own weaknesses. Sherlock let his anger subside slightly, letting his eyes fill with the concern it masked. 

"It's _John_ , Mycroft," he said, stressing the name, letting his voice lilt slightly as though emotions were compromising his calm.

Mycroft nodded. "I know," he said, and after a short pause, "Pretty child, don't you think?"

Impossible to manipulate a manipulator. Still worth the try. Sherlock scowled at his dismissal and sat forward on his seat, nearly coming to one knee against the pristine carpeting. "I _need_ to be on this case," he stressed, forcing his brother to meet his eye but finding the other's stare wandering.

"You never did learn the difference between need and want."

"Fine then: I _want_ revenge."

Mycroft sighed, looking even older though youth had long since passed him. "I know you do," He said in a harsh, hushed voice. "Regardless of the cost, I imagine."

"John's in hospital. How much more is there to pay?"

"Your own life, you infinite idiot!" It was almost a shout, the sudden raise in his vocal intensity sending Sherlock's spine stiff. "Something John felt needed to be protected as well. You do not get to decide if his actions were justified based on your own self-worth. He wanted you to be safe, could very well have died for such assurance, and by god you will be made to honor that."

Sherlock felt his hackles rise, the long-stated argument making his tongue sharper than even his mind. There was no ill greater than consigning a man to live past the years he desired, nothing more selfish than placing value in a life ran parallel not in search of beginnings but of ends. A man content to die should be allowed to do as he pleased and those who would rather he did not could consider, perhaps, their own lives and how truly unnecessary their opinions were in someone else's. It was an argument they'd had in college over wasted potential and cocaine. It was the same argument they'd had in many dark times when Mycroft felt his concern was grounds to overstep filial boundaries. Hospitals, rehabilitation centers, nights spent in lockdown all to teach him lessons he didn't need to learn, already knew, simply chose to ignore for his own delights. They were smart enough not to get into it but Mycroft never truly dropped it, assured as he was that he was right and his little brother a fool. Even Plato was thought a fool in his time. Sherlock pinned him with a glare, old sentiments never forgotten. "I _will_ escape, Mycroft."

"Perhaps," the British Government relented at last, not with a sigh but a firm jaw and knowing eyes. "But you will also remember this conversation. And you will not let either John or me down with your decisions thereafter. You are loved, Sherlock. By a great many people. Do not make them mourn you unduly."

Sherlock sat back in his seat, eyes avoiding the change in Mycroft's as he sank into the comfortable leather, fingernail scratching at the upholstery to leave at least one small imperfection.

He spent the night on a bed of newspaper under the flickering light of a barrel fire, miles away from Mycroft's home and its state-of-the-art security system. It hadn't been easy. It hadn't been hard enough all the same. London's mechanical sight was his extended cell and with that in mind he kept to his dark alleys mostly out of spite. He did not relish in the smells of urine, bile and alcohol which permeated the echoing, abandoned halls of spray-painted tags but it was not something he hadn't grown accustomed to in years past when required. There was no better place to hide than in plain sight and ducked down in a hooded jumper, denim pants worn thin at the knees, there was hardly anything worth noticing about one more nameless face among the destitute and desperate.

Sherlock stretched out his legs, his borrowed trainers a bit snug even with the laces pulled out and tongue left to wag. He was rather certain the man who'd gotten to walk away with a new suit—black though still bloodied—had thought himself the more fortunate of them both. If the unwashed linens of an unbathed man gave Sherlock the head of his enemy, though, there wasn't a luckier man on the planet than he. 

John never had been all that impressed with his disguises. John wasn't a man who took to deception with a smile or a shrug but more a grimace and a groan. John was a writer, not an actor and even as an extra he failed to impress. John was the light to everything that Sherlock held in shadows. He was an idiot, a moron, an absolute dimwit. A good man with a future had no right to stand in place of an actor merely pretending. When next he saw John he'd have to punch him for it. That ought to teach the lesson well. After he familiarized himself with his medical records and was assured of his full recovery. He mused to himself on a rather morbid tirade that he should perhaps first make sure John wasn't in need of any fluids or organs—the gunner would make a fine harvest if he attacked him just right.

John wouldn't find that amusing. John would think it macabre of him and tut or simply raise a brow to test his level of surety. John was very good at ignoring darkness, diagnosing it as a side effect or a passing fantasy. He probably wouldn't forgive him if Sherlock succeeded and John were to guess. John always saw him as better than he was, potential over reality. Sherlock had spent some years trying not to disappoint him too greatly. He'd rather given up on caring this time. Selfishly he could care about little else but his own anger and satiating it to the full extent of his bloodlust. There was no devil on his right or angel to his left, there was only blood on the pavement and soaking through his clothes. Liter by liter it would be matched and repaid.

The shadows along the stained ground grew longer as bodies flirted near the fire. Sherlock looked over, seeing the smiling face of an approaching urchin whose name and reputation he had known for years. "Well?" he asked, trying to maintain an expression of bored indifference.

Toby crouched down beside him, hands in his hood pockets as he perched like a hawk on his toes. "Jill said she saw some plain-clothes head inside the block of flats opposite. Looks like they have it under surveillance. No way of breaking in without a lot of antsy cozzers making a bit of noise."

Sherlock held back a sigh. He very much wanted his laptop but not enough to risk showing up on Lestrade's radar. His phone would have to do, much as linking to any mobile network made him wary. "Not entirely unexpected.," he admitted with a small nod to Lestrade's growing competence. "Anyone other than Scotland Yard?"

"Nah, not a one. Jill's gonna keep the area covered, let you know if anyone loiters a bit too long."

"Good. And the rest?"

Toby shrugged, his lips drawing flat in a tight non-expression "Nothing. Sorry, that street's not really prime real-estate. Lucky to pull a couple pieces an hour. Pauly spends a bit of time there now and then but he was in Piccadilly Circus this afternoon. Got a few people out asking about seeing anyone suspicious or finding any handguns' been ditched but it's only been a few hours. Better luck in the morning when they're back to their usuals."

Sherlock hadn't expected much more— _hoped_ , yes, but not expected. "Of course. Thank you, Mr. Wiggins."

"Not a problem." He rocked back on his heels, smile broad with amusement. "Almost makes me feel respectable helping you out like this," he said, a bit of ash hidden in the shadow of his chin.

"Find me something pertaining to the shooter and I guarantee you I will make it more than just a feeling."

"I know you're good for it, Mr. Holmes, but thanks all the same. I'm not out here because I've got nothing better. This is my ideal society. I'm living the dream," he preached with no small amount of pride.

Sherlock let his head rest on the brick wall at his back. "Not every dream includes defecating into plastic bags but I take your meaning."

Far from insulted, Toby chuckled. He was a good kid. Sherlock liked him. He'd never let him down in the past and a favorable reputation could excuse most anything in Sherlock's ledger. The urchin side-eyed him for a moment, licking his lips before rocking forward again. "You, ah... you need anything? I don't deal but I know a guy if—"

"No," Sherlock cut him off, hand raised for emphasis. "That won't be necessary," he said. The cigarette pack adding bulk to his shirt pocket would be quite enough.

"Well, you change your mind, you let me know. They don't call me The Bloodhound for nothing. You need something found, I'm your man."

"The gunner will do."

"Then the gunner you shall have." Toby gave him a slight bow with extra flourish in his waving hand as he tilted his smiling head and rose. "You don't have to stick around; I've got your number if I find anything."

"Just the same, I'll stay here for now. I need to think. This is just as good a place as any."

Toby nodded, scuffing his worn shoes on the concrete. "I'll leave you to it then," he said, and walked off with a final tip of his imaginary hat towards the lit barrel and the homeless gawkers whom, with any luck, would want in on a cut of the prize. The more the merrier—Sherlock didn't care how far-spread news of his endeavor became. Let the guilty party know he was coming for him. It made little difference. 

Sherlock reached through his jumper and took out a single cigarette, wise enough to never show a pack in a crowd with some to spare. He lit it with a cheap pub matchbook and let the light of the cherry glow under the cover of his hood. A few breaths of smoke weren't enough to settle him but the habit felt good and right and necessary. It filled his head with a pleasant buzz that pushed back the ache that carried no wound.

John had almost died for him today. And amidst the shock and horror of the reality that could have been a world without John Watson was a small, happy spark of joy that burned guilty like a cherry in the dark.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock hadn't slept in three days. He doubted it would do him much good all the same if he tried. When he closed his eyes he saw the street outside of the Three Garridebs cafe and the cab on the curb and the red. With his eyes open there were bricks and graffiti and stains that might be blood—more likely petrol or other accelerant residue. Open eyes were honest eyes. Sherlock preferred to see what he was facing rather than the shadows of things that never left.

The streets were full of shadows even in the mid-day sun. Sherlock was one of them. He leant heavily against one of the cement slabs that stretched into Waterloo Bridge, his senses keen on the young he set on patrol—his urchin army—as they did the work few men could do. Few inquisitions were better served by those of authority. Children trusted children and respected friendships over hierarchies. In some ways, it was a great honor to be called childish. Negative connotations aside, they at least had their priorities in check. Not that such likenesses were an advantage. Sherlock was far too old to even pretend to still fit in among the young men harrying within the undercroft of the Southbank Centre. He stood back instead with little else to do but watch and observe and wait. Someone, somewhere, would know or have seen something. No one remained in the shadows forever.

His mobile phone rang within his pocket, the sound nearly dwarfed by the ambiance of the city. He pulled it forth, expecting to see Lestrade's number waiting for him to ignore. Perhaps Mycroft, though unlikely. Instead it was John's.

It was an automatic response, not in the least bit dulled over time or with thoughts unnecessary. "John?" he called into the receiver. Heartbeat—memory—foolish.

"No, sorry. It's Mary," the woman's voice replied. Sherlock didn't even try not to scowl as he tucked the phone under his hood against his ear. "Had to get on his phone to get your number so I thought, well, easier to just make the call from it."

"More likely for me to pick up."

"That too," she admitted. There was a pause. "John's still asleep," she said at last and while Sherlock could attest to some slight pleasure in being informed on the basics of John's condition, it did not make the conversation any less awkward.

"Alright," he said, and waited for her to get to it or get off the phone.

"He's fine, though. High as a kite, I imagine, and sleeping it off. First thing he's going to ask me when he wakes up is how you are. Thought I'd be a bit proactive while I'm waiting here and make sure I tell him what he wants to hear and not just what he _wants_ to hear. So. How are you, Sherlock? It's been ages."

"Not that long as far as he's concerned. Just tell him I'm making my brother's life a misery for now. Not a scratch on me and no imminent cause for any."

"Alright, I will. And what are you really doing?"

Sherlock's nose scrunched with annoyance. "What makes you think I'm lying?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes. You always lie when you shouldn't and never tell the truth when you should."

"According to John," he said with a hint of displeasure.

"I'd say John's the expert here." There was another annoying pause punctuated at length by a breathy exhale. "Look, ah... John's probably going to be here a while. Made a mess of his collar bone and, you know, ...inside. If you want to come visit, you can call or just text this number and I'll head out for a bit. Probably need to take a trip back to the house to get some essentials anyway."

"Why?"

"Well, I didn't exactly have the presence of mind to grab the nappy bag."

Sherlock shook his head despite her not being able to see him. "No, I mean why are you offering?" he asked. He turned his body closer to the concrete wall, shielding the phone further. 

"John will want to see you. I know how boys are. You can't talk about all those silly boy things when icky girls are around."

He chortled. "You think I don't want you around just because you're a _girl_?"

"I think this is the part where you're supposed to go with the lie, Sherlock." The tone of her voice put a halt to his ill-humor, not cold or dispassionate but _knowing_. "Call or text," she said. "You should come visit at least once. For his peace of mind."

"If I can," he lied.

"See there? Told you John was the expert. Bye, Sherlock." There was a smile in her voice. It made Sherlock's stomach cramp. And the call, such as it was, ended.

Sherlock held the phone in his palm for a moment longer than necessary before slipping it back into the pouch of his hooded jumper. He hoped this wasn't the beginning of a trend, of a sort of 'thing' where now Mary thought it was a good idea to contact him. Greeting her on one occasion—a rather _critical_ occasion—did not mean he had any intention of prolonging his awareness of John's life outside of their friendship. He would forget about what he now knew in time. Maybe. With luck.

But he did not like her. Now she had taken up the role of being the 'bigger person', waving a flag of civility, all smiles and favors and kindness unrequited. Oh, she was good—he'd forgotten just how good—and he _hated_ that she was one up on him yet again. It had almost been fun back in the day to have an opponent who was smart enough not to fall into the same ol' traps but he could hardly relish in her continued victory. She made _him_ the fool who continued to stumble over the same petty obstacles. And so what if they were petty? Pettiness was the luxury of the loser and he'd be damned before he gave up the brevity of pleasure it sometimes afforded. Mary could keep her charity and good will and shove them both up whatever imaginative orifice seemed least appealing.

If John had to get married, he could have at least picked a woman who cared that he wanted nothing less than for an enormous seismic rift to tear England apart in such a way as to forever separate the two halves with John on one side and his wife on the other. He could have married someone who agonized over Sherlock's lacking approval, who was desperate to be liked and deemed acceptable by his high authority. Instead he married a woman who considered Sherlock just some bloke her husband was very fond of. Clever, clever, crafty woman. He supposed, had she been anything less, he might have been angry at John instead.

Sherlock let his head fall back on the cement, eyes closed and red veined as they faced the sky. He really didn't need this right now. He needed to remain focused on the case, on the gunner, on the unknown motive that marked him as a dead man. The ridiculous complications that made up John's life, that made John's life separate from his own, were things he'd hoped had been dealt with a long time ago. The phantom pain was just as strong as ever, though, like a limb once there now detached. Not dealt with, just dormant, and no longer satisfied to be so— _Had it ever been?_

"Hey, you alright?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and adjusted his posture, looking down on Toby and the girl in his company as they crossed the pavement towards him. Tucked away, stone faced, ready for anything. "Not all that impressed with these new shoes," he said, toeing the too-tight trainers against the hard ground. "So, what did the police ask you?" he inquired of the young woman.

Toby smirked, an excited twitch accenting his movements as he gestured to her. "I love it when he does this. Jill, this is the guy. Don't say his name but I told you, didn't I?"

The young woman nodded, demure, timid, scared. There were traces of black ink under her fingernails where she hadn't quite cleaned off the residue from being fingerprinted at the station, a slight purple discoloration to the pads of her fingers as well to rule out bad hygiene. No traces of tissue fibers on her shirt or snot on her sleeve—hadn't cried, soft-ball tactics, not the suspect. "They have the gun, I take it?"

Jill shrugged her ears down into her shoulders. "I don't know. They just wanted to know why I was hanging out on Baker Street."

"Not generally something to be printed over. They were comparing them to something, then, the only likely 'something' being the revolver used in the shooting. They have _a_ weapon I should say—ballistics probably still out on the slug recovered from John—but a ditched weapon in the vicinity of a known shooting doesn't make for a difficult deductive leap even for them. So, prints present but no match in the criminal database or they wouldn't waste their time printing just anyone off the street. Even an idiot knows not to handle a gun bare handed but no crook worth his wages ditches his weapon on the run so either way we're not dealing with a professional." Sherlock grimaced, tapping his toe in anxious agitation. "So the question is now who did I make angry enough to want to kill me who wasn't already on the criminal track?"

"Well, you make lots of people angry," Toby chimed in, his smirk not in the least diminished. "I can probably get some people in on the gun angle, though. If it's not a pro, they had to get a gun from somewhere. Might be I know a guy."

Sherlock nodded. "And if your guy happens to recall someone mentioning a private detective?"

"I'll get what I can from him and call you straight away."

Sherlock nodded again, satisfied for now at the direction of the inquiry. He had enough to cover on his own front, motive still out on a nameless assailant whom perhaps he had wronged but _how_ seemed lost to time. For now. But answers, if they were there to be found, started with procuring an Oyster card.

 

Sherlock had never been to John's new home nor to his small flat before it. If the train ride was anything to go off of, it would be an uninteresting eyesore. That wasn't fair, perhaps, but then again he hadn't intended it to be. It wasn't his flat on Baker Street and therefore what use was it? Just a place too far away that housed his old case notes—his and John's—which put into detail their accounts of each case. Names, dates, everyone they'd spoken to, everything that might have been dismissed as not pertinent to _those_ cases but were now instrumental to his own. He'd given them to John for the purposes of his writing many months back and much to his delight now. While the Yard kept his own home under surveillance for suspicious loitering or any suspected attempts, the notes he now needed were safely contained elsewhere.

It was about time something worked in his favor.

With any further luck, breaking into the Watson homestead would continue with that trend. He'd waited for nightfall all the same. Not that he'd been idle. Taking the direct route to John's home wouldn't have worked if somehow someone followed him or Mycroft became tipped off as to which Oyster card he'd stolen. Sherlock had gotten off a stop later and walked back down the streets, learning the new environment, imagining much to his disinterest the walks with a pram the happy family might have taken as he came across several parks, some with fountains, some with ducks. It was a nice town. Safe. Far less noisy than London with a bit fresher a scent to the air. There were small bricked gardens in the fronts of the homes and no shops in-between but set aside on the corner of the wooded road. It was the sort of place where neighbors peeked through their blinds at strangers and phoned each other about this and that. Sherlock was glad for the night as he watched old ladies watch him. He smiled and waved so they knew he knew and would bet with full assurance none would be able to identify him apart from any other hoodie even if they were asked to.

John's home looked like all the others in the boring neighborhood. White with brown beams, red brick with red siding between ground and first floor bay windows, beige painted sides along a short stack of front-facing garages with black BMWs parked out front—not John's, a neighbors. John's ground floor windows had white curtains inside but the darkness made seeing through them at a distance impossible. Sherlock counted the houses and walked down to the end of the block, coming back around the back over fences and through gardens as he found the patio door practically begging to be picked open. Child's play. The world truly owed him a debt of gratitude considering all the evil he could have wrought had he a care to.

The tumblers fell into place with hardly any effort at all, the door pulling open with more time spared climbing their neighbor's oak than in kneeling at the lock. He closed the door carefully behind him, engaging the lock himself just in case, however unlikely, he'd been followed. He'd lost a lot to hubris in his lifetime and surely didn't need to make further habit of it now. Through the somewhat messy kitchen he stepped over colorful blocks and blankets set up like a defensible fort in the center of the main room. He did his best to ignore the photos on the wall—well, not his best since he failed. Dating photos. Wedding photos. Pregnancy and baby. A family lived here. Though he took no hesitation in borrowing from John, it felt like trespassing now. The sooner he got what he needed and left, the better.

The lights were on at the top of the stairs, illuminating for Sherlock the rather treacherous path where laundry seemed to have piled up in a rolling cascade from rooms above to the machine below. Bras, knickers, pants, trousers, sleepsuits. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, keeping his eyes down to avoid tripping, which was perhaps his second mistake.

The first had been to assume that the lights off on the ground floor had meant no one was in the house.

It wasn't the impact of the bat, per se, but rather the loss of balance and his presence on the stairs which caused the greater alarm. Clawing for purchase and coming away with air, Sherlock stumbled and fell, hitting his back against the steps as he struck then slid then crumbled at the bottom with a deaf ringing in his ears and a whitewash of vision. He only had a second to register either as his eyes blinked closed then suddenly remained. It didn't hurt. It didn't feel at all. Not when he was already back on the street outside of the Three Garridebs cafe with the cab and the curb and the red.


	5. Chapter 5

The warm mug of tea at hand hardly made up for the painful lump on his brow as Sherlock sat at the kitchen table among nipple-less baby bottles and dummies with a towel-wrapped bag of frozen peas pressed to his face. His host opened several cabinet doors in search of something—likely biscuits—with her hands shaking slightly still from adrenalin. Mary looked far more anxious than guilty, the turn of her lips and crease of her brows making her appear more and more like that of the most put upon women in the world. Sherlock rolled his eyes, stirring his tea as the milky swirls upset the sugar below. "I'd say it's fine but you haven't actually apologized."

"And why on earth would I do that?" Mary shut another cabinet door, scowling with full force this time as she popped the top off the tin and grabbed a handful of mixed shortbreads for a plate. "You break into my home, you get hit with a bat. Occupational hazard of the burglar."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not a burglar."

"Well, you obviously fooled me. Just what are you doing breaking into my house?"

"I need something for the case. The old notes John and I kept on my work."

"So instead of asking me you just thought you'd break in and find them yourself?" she asked. She readjusted the peas on Sherlock's face, his own means of holding them apparently not to her high standards of swelling treatment.

She was worse than a wasp on a picnic. "I know John. Finding them would not have been difficult."

"Well, John isn't the only one who lives here. No offense, but I don't want anyone just going through our things. You sit there, keep that on your head, _I'll_ get the notebooks," she instructed, not to be ignored nor argued with. He could hear her mutter to herself as she walked past him and up the stairs, some of the more audible phrases including ' _the nerve of some people_ ' with a few less disagreeable ones following a sigh of ' _of course he'd come by when the place is a mess!_ '. 

Obviously she didn't remember Baker Street very well. Then again, John had always done his best to make the place look nice when his lady friends came calling. The jumble of science equipment had simply been replaced by Fisher Price stacking blocks and multicolored doughnuts. John probably felt right at home in the middle of the organized chaos. As well he should. It was his home.

There was a lot more to pretend he didn't see with the lights now on on the ground floor. The newspaper by the chair in the sitting room had a stuffed doll resting on top, the one put down to hold the other and similarly deposited once it too was without use. He could practically see John sitting there, making ridiculous faces and even worse noises, playing make-believe with a child whose mind was not mature enough to even comprehend reality yet. Goos and Gaas and games of 'Where's Daddy?' played on rainbow throws laid over the carpet surrounded by the stuffed animal parade. Even without her or them present, it was easy to see what was at the center of their island universe. Even had he the joy of ignorance to the ills that came before her, it was obvious how happy they both were to have her now. One giant shaker of salt. Sherlock readjusted the peas again, feeling the cold burning through the tea towel as he stared down at his mug instead.

Mary was quick in her return. She came down the stairs with a few laundry stumbles with as many volumes as Sherlock had expected, resting them on the table beside him as she returned to grab her own tea and sit. "That's all he has here. Might be more in his laptop bag but I went ahead and left all that with him at the hospital. If what you need isn't here, you'll just have to go visit him."

Sherlock nodded, giving them a quick flip through, quite keen to get on with his reading. "Still asleep?" he asked absently, placing the stack in chronological order.

"No, he woke up a few hours ago. Greg's with him for some questioning and said he'd stick around if I needed to go home. Before you get too excited though, John really doesn't remember much. Said the last thing he clearly remembers is waiting for you in the cafe."

"Not surprising." Sherlock was having a bit of a time with his own short-term memory after the knock he'd received. "Still, I think I've got enough to go on without his aid."

"Fingers crossed." Mary said and smiled into her mug as she sipped from her brew in the seat diagonal from him. He could practically feel her smugness, uncomfortably aware of how close in quarters they were as they sat together, alone for the first time in.... ever.

"You're happy. Why are you happy?"

She shrugged, blonde hair scrunching at the shoulders. "Because here we are at last," she said, as though it had been an inevitability a long time in coming. 

Sherlock scrunched his face, feeling the skin pull over his bump. "Are we due for some sort of final confrontation I wasn't aware of? I was actually quite alright with the never speaking to or seeing each other again. Might I suggest we do that instead?" 

"No." She sipped her tea, reaching across to help herself to one of the biscuits she'd set for him. "I'm not your arch nemesis, Sherlock."

"No, of course not. My arch nemesis made me choose between my life and John's. You're completely different. Mind you, I used a much nicer tea service when he and I sat for a quick chat."

Mary wasn't in the least bit put off by his demeanor, plowing forward like a mindless farm animal too set in its ways to mind the cliff. "It's always been John for you, hasn't it?" she said more-so than asked.

"What, my Achilles Heel? With annoying regularity." Sherlock let the frozen vegetables rest on the table rather than his face, using flippancy to his advantage as he plotted his escape. "I should have had him microchipped for all the times he went missing. Terrible trait to have in an assistant."

"You know what I meant, Sherlock."

"And that is not a line of inquiry you want to follow, Mrs. Watson."

"You think I don't already know?" Mary wrinkled both brows, lacking the facial dexterity to raise just one in sarcastic query. She put her mug of tea down, elbows up on the table in an appalling display of table manners. "It doesn't matter to my marriage. You're not a threat to me. Maybe in the start, back when John and I were dating, maybe back then you were but you're not now. This doesn't end in ' _stay away from my husband_ '. Quite the opposite, really. I just want to know why you're not here. House warming, Christmas, birthdays... Do you hate me so much you can't even be there for John?"

Sherlock leant back in his seat, a grim smile on his face as he laced his fingers under his chin. All the times he dreamed of telling her off, all the words he'd plotted in his head to say in just such an opportunity and now he had the unique problem of not knowing where to begin without the annoying remnants of a conscious telling him not to. She had asked. If ever John felt the need to chastise him for spewing venom, she had been the one to insist he speak. It was like a Kevlar vest, protective, bulletproof. She asked and who was he to deny her after the lovely red bump she'd given him?

But, oh, where to begin?

"I never expected you," he said at length, looking down through his lashes at her hands around her mug of tea—firm; nervous, anxious. "You were much more clever than the rest, avoiding the greatest pitfalls. You never gave him the ultimatum: you or Sherlock Holmes. The others did and of course I always won. You can't tempt a toddler away from cake with naught but a jelly bean. They might have put out but never more in the realm of adrenalin and endorphins than I did. I was always the better choice without ever having to man a defense. And then you came along. Orphan, independent, I should have recognized the threat. You told John in no uncertain terms that you had a life and if he wanted to be a part of it, then it was up to him to make time. You didn't chase him, you just set the bait and let him come to you. You knew every means of ensnaring his kind. Where the others played the damsel, you played the whore."

"Excuse me?"

"Archetypically speaking." Sherlock shrugged, not the least concerned about the possible slight. "Either way, you played for John the exact same way I did with repeatable results. You made him respect you. Love came later. And then, well, what was I to do? Tell John it was you or me? I'd seen the error of that ploy far too many times to try it myself. No, I just... waited. Watched. I lost John the moment he met you, it just took a year to realize it. Call me old fashioned but I don't really think I'm obligated to like the person who swoops in and takes what's rightfully mine."

Mary scowled, nearly speaking over him at the last. "John's not propert—"

"John wouldn't be the person he is today if it wasn't for me. And I suppose I'm obligated to say the same for myself. I don't need to be here to know he's happy. If he wasn't happy, he wouldn't be here; he'd be with me. I know everything I need to know about the state of your marriage in the vacancy of my guest room. Being here, pictures on the walls, laundry mingled in a pile, is simply rubbing it in my face."

Mary was quiet for only a moment, staring at him with intensity in her cold, blue eyes as she shook her head from side to side, losing his stare in the toss. "I have a hard time believing you could be that cold to your best friend. When you say it like that, it's like you don't care about his happiness at all. You're just looking forward to a sadness that will make things more like you had them before."

"Oh, good, I've made myself clear then."

"I don't believe you."

"Then you're not as clever as I gave you credit for." Sherlock picked up the notebooks and knocked them even on the table, pushing back in his chair to rise with his piece said and nothing more needed.

"Love isn't that selfish," Mary demanded, her hand grabbing the rooftops of the books as he tried to pull away. "If you didn't value his happiness, you would have made a scene at the wedding. If you didn't want him to be happy, he wouldn't be. You have that power. You can't make him leave me but you can take away his joy. I don't think you're angry with me at all, Sherlock. I think you're mad at yourself. Because you know, deep down, you probably could have stopped this. But you didn't. And you still don't. Because John matters more than anything else. You _are_ happy for him. I doubt there is anything you want more than for John to be happy. You just can't accept your part."

Sherlock could not help the flinch, an involuntary movement that stole away yet another piece of what he had left. He glared at her though his face felt calm, nothing but weariness in his flesh with a still burning fire in his soul. "Does this make you feel good?" he asked, his voice rough and low. "Does it make you feel powerful?"

"No. Not in the least. Heaven help you, Sherlock Holmes, but you make him happy. You can aggrieve him like no other but you truly make him fundamentally happy. That's why I need to ask you a favor." 

Sherlock hadn't expected those words, his chin cocking with curiosity as Mary took a long but shallow breath. "Be there for him. Not just when it suits you. I need you to be there when he needs you."

"Why?"

"Because you love him."

Sherlock chuckled darkly. "Which is precisely the reason I won't be. He has you, remember."

"I have cancer." Her lips pursed, teeth holding them closed, her eyes all but watering as her expression pinched around fear and worry. "It happens," she said, shrugging it off nonchalant though even the pitch of her shoulders betrayed her.

What was there to say? "John knows?"

"No, not yet. I didn't want to worry him, so he doesn't... not even about the test. But the results came back... God, the day before? I was trying to figure out how to tell him and then..." Her lips pulled into a thin smile, a half laugh, a shrug of her shoulders to round out the sentiment. "Things... never go right for me. John was the first right thing I ever wanted. That I ever got. Don't think for one second that I don't know how lucky I am. I wake up some mornings and I can't believe he's there. That he chose me and this when he had you and the world. I've never been happier. And I've never been more scared. And what happens to me happens and then that's it. But I can't... John needs people. He doesn't do well on his own. Even if he won't talk, even if he keeps it inside, if you're there... John _needs_ you. And our family needs John."

"No."

"Not even then?" she asked, voice cracking as her strong chin trembled.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I mean... money isn't an option. Best treatment, best hospitals, best everything. You're supposed to leave him so he can hate you, you're not supposed to die. I can't win if you die. So.. no."

A short squeak of a laugh broke through the tension, Mary's eyes finding the table long before they dared to look back up into his. "See?" she said, her smile tight but true. "You do care. It does matter to you—his happiness."

"He'd do little else for me." 

"Thank you." She smiled, sniffing back tears that never fell as she stood, taking up the mugs of tea and walking them to the sink. "Well, for God's sake, don't get yourself killed out there looking for this creep. You going to need a place to hide for the night?"

Sherlock shook his head again, finding himself trapped in an awkward moment of not knowing what to say, where to look, what to do. "No, I just came for these notes," he said at last, waving them slightly for the benefit of no one. "I need to be catching the last train back to London, get in touch with my street operatives and see what they might have found."

"And you'll be safe doing all this?" she asked.

"Safe as I ever am."

"Not exactly comforting to know." Mary forced one last smile before turning towards him, leaning against the counter with both palms behind her. "If you do see John, not a word, okay? I'll tell him. He just has enough on his mind right now."

He wasn't the only one. Still, Sherlock nodded, pushing his chair in for a lack of anything more obvious to do with his hands. "No, nothing," he promised, leaning to step towards the back door then thinking better of it and heading towards the front instead. 

Mary stopped him as he went, pulling on his arm to make him stand still as she stood on her tip-toes to kiss the shallow of his cheek. "Thank you, Sherlock," she whispered, letting him go but still seeing him to the door like a welcomed guest rather than an intruder.

He took the straight road back to the train station, not caring all that much at the moment about his brother's possible surveillance. His mind was far too full of distractions as it was. A free ride into town in the quiet of a luxury automobile might have helped drain away the excess thoughts that threatened to derail his business mind. He had work to do, so much work waiting with a criminal still out there, on the loose, still breathing when Sherlock had promised to make him stop. But all he could see were dolls on newspapers and bras mixed with jumpers and a tin of biscuits far too large for just one man to finish off.

He took his seat and read his notes. The rest would still be there after.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been a guilty pleasure for some time. In the shower, on the toilet, waiting in a queue, lying on the sofa with boredom setting in, it'd been something to do that made him feel good, an exercise in role-play playing to his fantasies. They all started the same way: John Watson entering 221B full of rage, red faced and furious, pacing and ranting with acrimonious abandon. Sometimes Mary'd cheated on him. Sometimes she had the nerve to request an open marriage—an easily deduced sign of sexual dissatisfaction. Sometimes she just vanished, leaving just a note and none of her belongings. Regardless of why, John was always angry. His shouting would be enough to make Mrs. Hudson peek up the stairs in concern and Sherlock, in his patient wisdom, would usher her to stay out of it while he made the tea and quietly listened as John roared on about all the things that made Mary a mistake. He never had to say ' _I told you so_ ' because John always got there first, his rantings following a course of praise for Sherlock's foresight while damning his own sentimental ignorance. John did almost all the talking in the little scenarios. It was far more pleasing for it to be from John's lips. And after the hateful remarks and character bashing that John needed to get off his chest, he would promise one simple thing: to never leave again. And they would drink tea and read the paper and go out for a curry at eight and never speak of it again unless John needed to be reminded of Sherlock's better judgment on other matters.

John was always angry. Always red-faced and white-knuckled and seething with hate-hurt. Sherlock never, for his own selfishness and peace of mind, ever considered John might be crying when he finally came home.

It was the only thing his mind could consider now on the dull train ride, the words of his notes blurring as troublesome thoughts got in his way. John the stubborn ass, staying put to prove he could, denying all attempts to help, calm outside and at war inside, drinking, losing, fighting reality with delusions and self-medicating the truth. Becoming Sherlock. Avoiding Sherlock—avoiding anything that reminded him of what happiness had been and could be, that it even still existed. Fake smiles and boarding schools when she grew up to look too much like her mother and the pain that never heals made anew. Sherlock would have paid millions just for the ability to scoop thoughts from his head and throw them away. This wasn't conducive to working, this was not going to solve the case. It didn't even make him feel better. It felt like death. And death felt hopeless.

He forced himself to focus, trying to push all thoughts of John from his mind though it was John that motivated his movements. There were still things to consider, factors that didn't add up, an inkling in the back of his mind that called for his attention as details filtered down, down, down through the mire of pointless worry. 

Center, focus—start from the beginning.

Sherlock had been trying to wrap his case up before their weekly meeting. Sitting at the cafe with John was a treat he looked forward to despite the business of his schedule. He never wanted to miss it when possible. He was very pleased when the foot-chase ended within reasonable expectations for John to still be waiting and ran all the way there, not wanting to waste time with proper traffic law, knowing short-cuts, knowing how to get there fast though he never wanted to seem too keen. 

Criminal apprehended by Scotland Yard—Non-violent—guilty of theft. No match.

John had been working on his laptop. Never did learn how to type. Working on a new story, _The Woman’s_ story. Sherlock wasn't altogether pleased with his choice in cases. There wasn't much to tell until Bond Air was declassified meaning it was just a short story about how Sherlock failed to get a phone. He hoped. He did not need his romantic naivety becoming public knowledge. It was enough to simply live with it day to day.

Assumed alive and in hiding—Violent only when provoked—permanently abstaining from London. No match.

He'd promised Lestrade he wouldn't be long. He still had to give his testimony and evidence to the Yard to flesh out their case after the arrest. Small matter, trivial detail, but important if he wanted to continue to consult. John understood as always, no words need spoken. They'd gotten to see each other and have a brief chat. It would be enough. Like one big gulp of air before descending beneath the waves once more, not ideal but somehow always still enough.

And outside, goodbye, and then a gunshot. One gunshot. Why one?

Sherlock frowned as the train jostled him, his notebooks nearly upset from his lap as an obese woman waddled by with no attention paid to her fat-apron. Something was wrong. Something about the gun.

One shot fired and the people on the street scattered before they finally fell upon himself and John. Temporary chaos but in the wake, not in the moment. Target missed and the shooter runs and at some point tossed his gun away, fleeing the scene. No. Guns are hard to come by, rookie shooter, rookie mistakes, _tosses his gun away and runs?_

Oh.

_Oh!_

Sherlock's fingers were all but trembling as he fished his mobile out, phoning Lestrade with too much anxiety in his limbs to allow him to sit still. Wrong, wrong, so wrong and every bit of it right _there_! He sorted through the notebooks again, opening the first one that now had highlights and pen marks from John's more recent reviews.

"Sherlock?"

"Was the gun you found a match for the slug they retrieved from John?" The people on the train did little to conceal their immediate interest in the conversation in their car, all eyes all but shifting to stare as Sherlock bounced his heels and eyed the map of the closest station on the wall.

"Sherlock, how do—You can't be on this case, Sherlock. Hell, _I_ shouldn't even be on this case."

Sherlock glared, gathering his things as he stood to pace, the station still far too far away and his patience nonexistent. "The gun, Lestrade. It's imperative. Was the gun you found a match?"

There was a sigh and muffled exhale. "Yeah, we got the weapon," the older man said, the weight of his conscious evident in the gravel in his voice.

"Are you still at the hospital with John?"

"Where are you even _getting_ this stuff!?"

Sherlock had run out of all patience for the time being and possibly into the near future. "I'm not the target," he shouted. "John is! Now are you with him or not?"

There was a pause, a curse, and the jostled sound of movement. "Christ, are you sure?"

"The shooter took only one shot, hit John, took off and abandoned his weapon. If he had intended to shoot me, he would have continued firing and even failing that, having not dispatched me, he would have kept hold of the weapon to try again later. He attacked at the cafe and not at my home—my address being well known as my brother remarked on that day. _John's_ address isn't published, however. The fact that John meets with me in the same cafe at the same day and time would make it the best choice for targeting him."

"But who would want to kill John?"

The million dollar question. Sherlock stood at the closed door, begging the train to go faster as mental clarity allowed for deductive genius. "Someone not very happy to have the case of the serial killing cab driver resurrected," he said, his thumb still resting under the cover of the very first case John had scribbled out on paper. "Someone who was too young to understand what had happened back then and only recently has come to understand the monster he was. Or rather, from their perspective, the monster that John has made their _father_ out to be to the public."

"Jesus, how do you know?"

"I don't know. But right now it's the only thing that makes sense."

"Donovan!" Lestrade barked orders, the phone still pressed to his face and his voice ringing clearly for the rest of the train's passengers. "I want you to pull everything on the serial suicide case—Study in Pink. I want the names, addresses, everything you can get me on the man's kids and I need it now! You, get me someone in that hospital. I want a guard posted at Dr. Watson's room at all times, got it?"

"You're not at the hospital."

"No, John was tired, said to go on and let him and the little one have a nap. I'm on my way back right now."

Sherlock scowled as the train finally slowed towards the platform of the station. "The little one?"

"His kid."

"She left the baby with the invalid?" With a final lurch and a hesitant hiss, the train stopped and Sherlock bolted out, still miles away but better serviced by a cab to hasten him along.

Lestrade was rushing on his end as well, his heels echoing on the hallway tile. "He asked, she needed both arms. Not like either of them are going anywhere."

Jumping a short fence onto the street corner, Sherlock hoped that was indeed the case.

 

John felt... heavy. Like the first time out of the deep sleep, drugged and aching and _heavy_ as though every thought he'd ever had had been attached to his skin by hooks. It almost hurt to be so weighed down but there was only numbness, cold, and the funny patting to his cheek that was far from pleasant but hardly pain. He hadn't been dreaming. Sleep had been too deep to dream. Crawling up from that darkness was a challenge all its own, punctuated by an odd beeping sound he couldn't remember from before he fell asleep. Whoever it was that wanted him awake was redefining the expectations of a rude visitor. That made it rather easy to guess who it might be. He forced his eyes open, using his brows like a fulcrum to wrench them wide enough to see shapes through his lashes, blurs that slowly became things and people as his eyes were made wider and the lack of lights adjusted to. 

It wasn't Sherlock. He wasn't sure who it was but the hand over his mouth made sure he could not ask. 

"Shhhhh," the stranger instructed and against his shoulder was the blonde head of John's daughter. John's hand stroked along the empty bed sheets beside him in hope of invalidating the sight without such a kindness. The stranger smiled, his face young and full of stupid. "I'll let you go back to sleep in just a minute. See that?" He gestured with his chin to the bedside table, John's eyes following the line of sight to the glint of a knife's edge. 

The monitor registered a spike in John's heart-rate.

"I'm going to use that to slit your throat. But not just yet. Or maybe not at all. Maybe I think you should suffer more than that. I don't know. Should be fun finding out." He kept his hand down tight over John's mouth. Another monitor showed a maxed out morphine scale with the drip feeding down the last request. The sleep, the painless sleep, was still clawing at him to return. It would win. "You know, a father's love absolves almost everything. And good people can do bad things for very good reasons. My father, he killed people. For money. For me. That's love, Dr. Watson. That's a _real_ father."

Sleep, _God, he was tired_ , and he could feel the dampness on his face as he tried to fight it, tried to stay awake, tried not to shut his eyes and fall into the darkness while the insane young man held his daughter.

The playful smirk was gone, the cold blank pallet of a killer staring down at John in the dim light. "Tell me my dad was wrong now," he said. "Tell me you wouldn't kill every worthless moron in the world if it meant she'd be taken care of after I murder you."

John tried to raise his hand, to move at all, but his body was far too heavy to move. Even his eyelids felt too heavy as they slowly started to fall.

"Maybe I slit your throat, Dr. Watson. Or maybe me and the baby go for a swim in the Thames together. Do I want to kill you... or do I want to make you kill yourself?"

The sob was spat against the young man's hand, the last of John's desperation as he tried and tried and tried but only fell closer to the black sleep that promised him nothing but madness.

"Wave bye-bye to daddy. _Bye-bye~!_ "

With nothing left to fight the enemy in his veins, John watched the man wave his daughter's chubby little fist for her as all senses rolled back into numbing oblivion.


	7. Chapter 7

Case: 66923ZFH6C  
Suspect's Name: Alan Michael Hope  
DOB: 14-4-1998  
Occupation: Pre-Med student, Kings College London.   
Wanted on suspicion of attempted murder and kidnapping.  
Suspect's sister Rose Radcliffe reported Alan had been dealing with extreme depression after his girlfriend of three years broke their engagement having read about the children's father, Jeffery Lenard Hope, known as the Suicide Serial Killer.   
Suspect may be armed and is considered dangerous. 

 

+++

 

The night was quiet and peacefully still even with the sound of the train pulling further into the distance as Alan stood on the pedestrian walkway of Fulham Railway Bridge. The stars were out, little twinklings of light reflected in the black waters of the Thames. The fall wasn't likely to kill him but impact might be enough to knock him unconscious if he made a head-first dive. He didn't much like the idea of drowning. 

He liked the idea of prison even less.

The baby in his arms was heavier than she looked. He hiked her up higher, careful not to drop her through some mammalian instinct to protect the young of one's species, not all that concerned for her past an aversion to facing the horror of murdering a child too long before his own demise. He wasn't a monster any more than his father was. He wasn't sick, he was desperate. It was a game; A game of chance with just one move. His father would be proud. 

And Dr. Watson would lose no matter what choice he made in the aftermath: to live with the sin or to die by his own hand. The choice, as his father had put before others, was entirely in the victim's own hands. Shame about the child. But in the end, it was always the children who suffered the most. Alan was doing the little girl a favor, really. Better to end life while there's nothing but possibilities than live to see their end. 

Still, the water looked cold. Alan shivered in the air, hugging her closer to his chest to share in the warmth of another heartbeat. It was going to be a miserable death, perhaps worse than slitting his own throat as had been the plan before the reinvention. But then that was why he'd chosen the train bridge. One more option, something fast and relatively painless. Chuck the baby over the side then climb up and onto the rails. Simple. Ordered. Assured. Alan almost wished he'd kept his phone so as to look up the train schedule. Bright lights, heavy sounds, surely he wouldn't miss it next it came rumbling by.

The biggest worry was other pedestrians. It was late enough that no one seemed to care to cross the bridge but the city was never truly empty of night-owl transients. On the far end he could see at least one stranger coming down the path, hooded sweatshirt obscuring the face as they walked quickly against the cold. Alan scowled, giving the stars a longer look to try and ignore the walker. With his luck, it'd be some mugger aiming to make his last night on earth unnecessarily complicated. Not that he had anything to give. His phone and his wallet had both gone to some homeless kid he'd met along the way, a bit of good to go towards his cosmic karma and a tip off in the wrong direction if the cops bothered to try and trace his funds. He couldn't help but feel rather clever with that. The looks on their stupid faces when the chump buying a burger and a hotel room turned out to be a nobody; one last fuck you to the men of the Yard who were too late to save his father and never cared enough to follow through.

The child started crying. Of course she would. Alan rolled his eyes, patting her on the back to soothe her as he bounced lightly on his toes. She smelled ripe, her nappy heavy. The next train couldn't come soon enough.

As the man came to walk by, Alan pressed up close to the rail at his back, not trusting the stranger to walk behind him as he gave him room to pass. He could feel the structure hum with vibrations through the cold steel, a warning and a blessing for all that it foretold. Another train was coming. Alan looked to the side, searching for the bright lights that would tell him how long he had, how much time till he had to act, how imperative it was to leap into action.

The fist was a surprise. His head spun as the blow struck, his arms contracting around the warm body in his arms as he fell back, eyes searching the darkness of the hooded face as it came quickly closer. The forehead smashed into his nose with a crunch, arms wrenching the child from him as he stumbled, stunned and bleeding. The foot slamming into the backs of his knees stole his balance, sent him falling forward into the rail. After that, Alan wasn't sure what happened. The cold of the rail and the weight of the ground beneath his feet vanished, upturned and indistinguishable as the sky became the river became the crash of darkness that stole his breath and froze his bones and set his lungs to burning.

It didn't seem fair, really. Clothes too heavy, splashes mute as the train went screaming past. And above him the hooded stranger just stood, staring, waiting like Death himself cloaked in the misery of duty with a baby held in his hands—the beginning and the end. They stood like sentinels, even the child calming long enough to watch the water grow still as the disturbance sank until nothing but bubbles remained to break against the surface.

 

+++

 

Sherlock couldn't help but be annoyed at the fact that John was still asleep. It had taken nearly two days but he had come, he was there, in his hospital room far beyond visiting hours with a Scotland Yard escort waiting for the arrival of Mary just outside the door. Sally had changed the baby, the act apparently beyond Sherlock's abilities while questions lingered about how the young man came to drown in the river and why Sherlock was so sure that he had. Sometimes the answers didn't really matter. Reports would follow, red tape and blacked out pages on a wandering transient who found the child and turned her over to the authorities. Lestrade wasn't pleased but neither did he seem unhappy. The less spoken the better.

Sitting in the visitor's chair, Sherlock adjusted the girl so she sat upright, her back to his stomach as they waited quietly for John to open his eyes. His hands were large enough to hold her still with just the one, an overlap added less for her support and more for the sake of symmetry. She seemed quite impressed by the way her fingers curled around just one of his own, her mouth falling on his thumb in a drool coating gumming of his flesh. Inquisitive, trusting—all babies were. He'd encountered several in his line of work, a particular case involving suspected vampirism coming to mind, but he'd never really been all that close to one. Body heat, heartbeat, breath, sighs and gurgles; it was as though she was a real person, all compact and with barely a impression made upon her by the world. And for the first time it seemed strange to him that he did not know her name. The daughter of his best friend, a living, breathing byproduct of John's genetics and his nature, and all the while in the cab Sherlock'd only been able to soothe her cries with ' _It's alright, little one. You're safe now_.' Not his strongest suit, not his greatest talent. She screamed the whole way to the hospital. He'd tipped the cab driver extra for that.

John, at least, looked well. The wound in his right shoulder had his right arm pinned across his chest to keep the muscle group isolated and immovable. If not for the surgical sleeve it would almost have been rather Byronic for him to be lying there with his hand pinned over his heart. He looked peaceful in his drug induced sleep either way. It was an illusion, surely, but one that fell well upon his countenance. It was much better than watching a man sleep through pain.

He let his thumb run over the girl's tiny fingers as the other remained pressed against her tongue and front line of would-be teeth. It was an odd sensation to be holding the death of one's hope in one's hands. More surprising was the lack of animosity he felt towards her. No matter what happened between Mary and John, the girl would always be in her father's life. Never again would it be Sherlock and John alone with no cares or concerns but for each other. John was now a package deal. The top spot in John's life had a permanent reservation and Sherlock found himself sinking ever lower on the list. And he didn't even know her name. If Sherlock ever wanted to have John back in his life, his life now had to accommodate a child as well. It didn't. Pure and simply put, Sherlock himself still cried for attention and demanded to be seen to with no better manners than the child he held. His kitchen was home to several types of bacteria, there were weapons strewn about, glass and breakables, corrosive chemicals and bio-hazards. There were thousands of way for a child to die in his home, none of which needed to include much more than neglect on Sherlock's part. Holmeses did neglect very well. It came naturally. They were born with indifference and callousness in their blood. Despite the somber promise that John might really come home someday, Sherlock held on his lap every reason to believe that hope was gone.

And he still could not hate her. She was John; part of his body, part of his heart. He was holding a living, breathing vessel which contained in it all the possibilities to become that which made John the single most amazing person Sherlock had ever known. She was a byproduct, an offshoot, the next generation of Watsons undoubtedly fully prepared to take the world by force given a couple decades development. Rather than rue her birth, he found himself curious about her growth. It was nice, for once, not to feel a prevailing bitterness over all expectations. Perhaps it was only the end if he let it be.

He'd surrounded himself with death long enough. Maybe it was time to give life a try.

The machines near John's bed registered a spike in his heart rate, a continued trend as the stress of the conscious mind took over for the unconscious. Sherlock stood, holding the little girl out as he pressed her to his unwounded side. "She's right here, John. She's fine," he said, his slobbered fingers pressing damp circles to the sheets. 

John's left hand fumbled to grab her even before his eyes were open, the tubes of fluids getting in the way till Sherlock adjust them both, hand and child, so John could stroke her head and look at her without the plastic mess in the way. He pretended not to see John crying. He was sure they were happy tears either way.

"Oh, _Jesus_ , I... Christ, what happened?"

"He fell into the river and drowned," Sherlock said with no inflection and no remorse. It wasn't the first he'd used that particular tone. John held his stare, and nodded.

He would be a hypocrite to chastise him.

"Thank you."

Sherlock shook his head, keeping to a stance of vigilance at the bedside. "I should have realized you were the target long before I did. I was an idiot to have taken this long."

"You weren't too late. That's all that matters."

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps." It didn't feel like enough. The man had been in the room. Video had shown the man had had a knife, had John helpless and unguarded and at his mercy. That made twice in as many days that he almost lost John. It wasn't a feeling one ever got used to and he'd felt that fear and urgency many times throughout their friendship. It never got easier. The thought of losing John never became just another bitter pill to swallow. Even as much as he felt he'd already lost him, there was still that level of final separation that was more terrifying to consider than any other possibility in life. Sherlock let his fingers rest against the back of John's hand in warm assurance to himself. The case was over now. He'd done well enough to be content though his faults denied him satisfaction.

Through John's fingers he stroked the fine blonde hairs of his daughter's head, the mix of textures—worn flesh and soft hair—making for a unique tactile experience. He cleared his throat, shifting on his heels. "I don't... Does she have a name?" he asked, feeling sheepish for his poor wording and the obvious answer to his question.

John chuckled with a pained grimace, nodding slowly through a smile. "Yeah. She does." He stroked her head, guiding Sherlock's lingering fingers in tandem. "Sherlock Holmes, this is Analise Sherrinford Watson. Analise, this is that Sherlock bloke I keep telling you about." The look on Sherlock's face must have spoken volumes for the proud smile that broke across John's. "Had to get Mycroft's help with that one. Not Mary's favorite compromise but she got the name Analise from her neighbor's dog so she didn't have much left to barter with." 

Sherlock tried not to laugh but did. "She has your eyes," he told him.

"She's beautiful," John seemed to agree.

Sherlock nodded, letting his fingers delay before parting as he heard excited voices outside the door, Lestrade's calm tenor among them. Mary had arrived. "Well, that'll be my cue," he said, walking around the bed back to the door, resisting the urge to give John's foot a pat as he went.

"Sherlock."

The detective paused, looking back at the invalided man trapped prone on his hospital bed by plastic tubes and the small presence of his daughter. "I'm.. sorry. About this. The family being here and just... well, everything. It's all been my fault."

Sherlock nodded slowly, lips pursed. "All things considered, I haven't minded so terribly much. No reason to make a habit of it but... now and then... it wouldn't be the end of the world if you mentioned the important things."

John's short laugh was more relief than humor. "It's almost worth the wound to have had you meet Analise," he said with a pinch of something strong in the corners of his eyes.

Sherlock smiled softly, turning to the door in time to permit Mary's harried entrance—" _John!_ "—and his own quiet departure.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock had not been standing by the upstairs window waiting for the cab. He happened to prefer the natural light on that side of his living room and if it gave him a vantage point by which to observe the front curb it was only a coincidence. Further coincidence was that he had finished his composition just as the black vehicle pulled up, not at all hurrying to put his violin on her stand, unstressing the bow and smoothing out his suit. He could hear Mrs. Hudson below already coming down the main hall to the door. She hadn't been waiting either.

"Oh, you!" Mrs. Hudson cheered, already standing at the front door by the level of echo her voice carried. Sherlock took the stairs with cool hesitation, smirking slightly at the groans he could hear John making as he undoubtedly struggled with a full load.

"Yes, hello, Mrs. Hudson. You wouldn't mind, would you?"

"Mind? I've been waiting _ages_!"

Sherlock came around the corner of the stairs with absolutely no surprises waiting as Mrs. Hudson stood aside, arms filled with Analise and John struggling to get a few bags off the street and into the door with one arm still stuck uselessly in a sling. He frowned up at Sherlock, blowing out an already exhausted breath. "Could use a hand," he said, dropping a pink baby duffel at the bottom of the steps.

Sherlock eyed it with a raised brow "It would have perhaps been wiser to have just purchased a duplicate set of everything to leave here rather than cart the whole mess back and forth."

"Oh, no. Can't do that. That'd be sensible," John said, his cheeks red from exertion.

Sherlock could not help the smile as he took the last step at a hop and followed him out to the stuffed cab. There truly was a mountain of packed items inside from several more bags to a folded down pushchair. Sherlock handed to John the smaller items as he took up the heavier things himself. It only took a few trips between them to fill the entryway with a pink explosion of sundry stock. There certainly was a lot of pink.  
John loitered on the pavement rather than joined the pile inside. Waiting, hesitating, not staying, had to go. Sherlock nodded to the cab still idle on their curb. "Is he holding here for you?" he asked.

The doctor nodded, scratching at the back of his neck with his good hand where the strap of his sling cut across. "Yeah, I can't be long. Mary's in right now and I promised to be back before she was out." He took a deep breath with tired eyes looking up above their own heavy bags. "Little late to ask again but are you really sure about this?"

"Your wife is being irradiated and you have the full use of only one arm. You've a short list of options."

"Yeah, but we do have some," John assured him. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep in days by the look of him. Fatherhood, surely, but more than that as well.

Sherlock shook his head, dimpling his chin with an exaggerated frown. "Don't worry, I'm relatively sure Mrs. Hudson will be taking care of everything." She had certainly managed to already more or less disappear with the child in the time it took them to build the haphazard luggage barricade. He came down off , standing a few feet from John as they delayed upon the pavement.

John gave a worn smile, the older woman's enthusiasm certainly not much of a surprise. He licked his lips, a nervous habit. "Maybe. Just... You know, it wasn't all that long ago you didn't want to know about.. well, anything. Now you're babysitting. And it's... well, honestly it's everything I ever wanted. Which traditionally doesn't really mean the best for you. I just, ah... I guess I need to know... that it's okay. That you're not just forcing yourself to do this for me."

Sherlock cocked his chin just slightly, "Do I often make concessions against my will?" he asked, his tone nearly hypothetical.

"No, but apparently there is a first time for everything. Sherlock Holmes is babysitting for three days and it's not related to a case." He gave a slight pause, hairline shifting at the thought. "It's not, right? We don't need to have the talk about what you can and can't do with a baby, yes?"

"I'm almost insulted," Sherlock said, though he certainly did not sound overly bothered by the inquiry. He'd earned such suspicion over the years and it was hard to fault a stressed man for covering all his bases. "No, no case. Should be a rather quiet few days, really—Analise's plans on vocal dissonance not included."

John gave a short laugh at that. "Well, it wouldn't have compared to mine had Mary insisted on my mother coming into town to give a hand. I swear, prayer alone is keeping her off our doorstep. She's been dropping hints about how helpful she'd be ever since we told her about the, uh... well, ever since we told her." He took another deep breath, good cheer only doing so much to keep the weariness from his body. His shoulders told the whole story. His face added details to the facts. "She means well," he said, "They all do. Not going to lie, though, I'm kind of looking forward to it just being Mary and me for a few days. And she told me to tell you that she will be calling and it's not that she doesn't trust you but that is her baby and she expects photos daily."

"I'll try and remember."

"I'm sure she'll find time to remind you." John patted his open hand against his thigh as he looked back at the waiting cab. Time to press on. He took another long exhale. "Okay. Pushchair, nappy bag, the other bag has about two weeks worth of clothes in so it should get you through the next few days. Books and toys in there as well. Bottles and formula in the nappy bag, instructions on the packaging, some rags and blankets... um.. Mary packed all these and I didn't see much left in the room after so if you need something, it should be in there. I've got my mobile and..." He patted his thigh again, shoulders too stiff to shrug as his face did the rest. "And I'll be back to get her on Sunday."

"Yes, that does seem to be everything." Sherlock felt the awkward silence of a lingering goodbye and offered what he could into it as they continued to stand like slightly swaying trees planted in the pavement. "She'll be fine, John," he said, his voice softer than intended but not out of place in sentiment.

John chuckled nervously. "I'm stalling aren't I? Sorry."

"I meant Mary."

He pursed his lips. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Going to try and keep her away from spiders and anything else that might turn her into a super hero while she's radioactive all the same."

"I don't think it works that way but it's probably safer for the arachnid population as well," Sherlock said with a short chuckle. With John, he never needed to laugh alone. The doctor rocked back on his heels with a giggle, his hand coming up to pat Sherlock on the back, clasping his shoulder in a tight squeeze that felt much firmer than necessary, lingering both in the feel of his grip and a ghost of it after as he walked back to the door to call out for Mrs. Hudson. A kiss to Mrs. Hudson's cheek, a kiss to Analise's head, and John was walking back out to the cab with the same military stroll that made it impossible for him to blend in to a crowd. John didn't look back and Sherlock did not wait. Instead he walked back into the house, pushing a few items with his foot to get the door to shut behind him.

"What did he say when you told him?" Mrs. Hudson asked, Analise on her good hip as she stood in the hall.

Sherlock started, brows folding in confusion. "Told him? Told him what?"

"You know, about you being retired now."

"Oh." _That_. "Slipped my mind, I suppose. Knowing him, he'd take it as a sign of some midlife crisis. Don't really need him worrying unnecessarily."

Mrs. Hudson tutted as she adjusted her hold on the ruffled rump in her hand. "Well, you _are_ of that age," she said as though the words held some hidden wisdom.

"Hm." He much preferred to think of his age as more a coincidence than a statistic. He held his arms out, fully prepared to ignore the topic entirely. "I'll take her now."

"What about all these bags in my hall?"

Sherlock shook his head, not in the least dissuaded as he took Analise gently by the sides and slowly pulled her away. "I'll get them in a minute. You get tea started and join us when you're done." He held the child to his chest, her face taking to the dip of his neck as she settled comfortably against him.

Mrs. Hudson frowned at her loss, wiping down the front of her blue dress as she stood now empty handed. "You're sure you'll be alright with her? I wouldn't mind at all if you wanted to just leave her with me the whole time."

"Yes, we'll be fine, thank you," he assured her, and with a long step over the bags he hurried his way back up the stairs to his flat on the first floor before he could hear a word of argument.

His flat had seen several changes in the recent weeks. The kitchen, perhaps more notably than the rest, sported a clean table forever scarred by chemical spills, scratches and burns under which sat several packed boxes neatly labeled and stacked. More boxes sat in safe piles no more than two boxes high along the walls with books and files waiting to be cataloged and taped shut. One book shelf was already empty, the one to the left of the fireplace where John's chair used to sit. Sherlock had pushed it to a forgotten corner and replaced it, for now, with a small playpen of white mesh and sunshine yellow cloth over which a mobile of zoo animals sat stationary in an arch above. Sherlock had considered, very briefly, getting the one that came in pink which seemed to be common practice when buying for a little girl. He preferred the more gender neutral yellow, though, and could only imagine she would appreciate it as well as a deviation from her pink saturation and stagnation.

He approached it and paused in front of it to show her, not really certain what went for approval in baby. She wasn't crying which seemed to be the best sign. She didn't seem even to be looking at it either, though. Her head was still stubbornly resting on his shoulder. It was hard to mind. She'd see it later. "That's yours," he said, just to be certain she'd know. "Sorry the rest is a bit of a mess. Tried to clean up but I'm rather in the middle of moving right now." 

She made not a peep. Sherlock angled them both in front of the mirror to get a better view of her face, eyes open and mouth quite stuffed with most of her fist. Awake and alert, content to listen, perhaps even enjoying the rumble his talking produced. It was much more than the skull ever gave him as an audience. He gave her back a gentle pat as he paced back to the window by his music stand. "It should be much better once most of my things are relocated to my home in Brighton. Lucky find, really. I think you'd like it. It reminds me a little of a place your father once brought me. It's not far from the water and there's flowering trees and quite the array of local flora for the apiaries set up on the grounds. Two guest rooms so I'll certainly never be wanting for extra space. Can't really expect to be allowed to retire quietly so I'll be keeping both properties for now to save on the occasional commute. Not more than a year though, I shouldn't think. I'll certainly be spending the spring and summer months there. If I move my science equipment now, perhaps I will take my own retirement seriously as well." 

It still seemed like a very odd idea. No more murder, no more missing persons, no more serial killers and crime syndicates or the sword of Damocles dangling above his head. Maybe he'd allow himself one or two cases now and then in the Sussex area, something of a rare treat just to prove to himself he still could. But the misery and splendor of London, _his_ London, would surely be even more rare.

He sighed, letting his cheek fall to her head as he looked out at his city and all the brilliant destruction she concealed. "It's quiet and peaceful there, Analise," he said. "I don't really _do_ quiet and peaceful. As much as I wonder sometimes if I'm making a mistake, though, I still feel... good... that I'm trying at all. Maybe I need a change. Maybe I'll like gardening. Cross breed my own flowers and create new hybrid species like some botanist monk. Maybe I'll like bees. I have a whole new territory to map out and learn the way I know London. I doubt it will take long but it's still something. Something to look forward to. I haven't looked in that direction in a very long time."

Analise said nothing, a spot of drool landing on Sherlock's lapel as he held her.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called up. "The bags!"

Rolling his eyes Sherlock crossed to the yellow playpen, gently lowering a slightly fussy Analise into the padded cell. She seemed to rebel against being put down now that she'd had so much attention through the day. She kicked her feet, the white lace socks matching the ruffles on her bloomers, her face turning pink to match her dress. "Shh," he cautioned, stroking her soft head.

She was having none of it. Sherlock stood and set the mobile spinning, the giraffes and elephants flying like the proverbial pigs that should have heralded this day. He was halfway down the hall before she started screaming none the less. Mrs. Hudson could deal with that.

Sherlock needed to get the bags.


End file.
